Lost on the Shore
by Flyaway21
Summary: In the cultivation of insanity, roots grow deep.
1. Chapter 1

"Holy places are dark places.

It is life and strength, not knowledge and words,

that we get in them.

Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water,

but thick and dark like blood."

― **C.S. Lewis**

* * *

It begins with a body.

Another faceless corpse with a name that some detective will rattle out in a hurried breath along with age, color, height and a list of injuries that adorn the naked flesh. Usually a woman's name. Young enough to be sad. Pretty enough to make tragic. Such a waste, they tisk.

A name that the police will forget as soon as it's said, as soon as they catch sight of what comes next. They'll have to flip through their paperwork, locate the chart, trail one finger down the index to recall it like a serial number. Letters and numbers and a name that the girl inherited from her grandmother.

Then comes the evidence. The steps of the crime, staged like a dance and it is Will's job to turn splatters of blood into emotion, into motive. To see the intention behind another's art, the brushstrokes hidden beneath the paint. Bruises and lacerations. Speckles of blue and purple, black in the center, red shading along the edges. Almost like a sunset, Will muses. Missing organs. Livers and hearts and lungs. Some are removed with great care post mortem. They like to take their time, fascinated by the hidden facets inside the human body, the blood and muscle and bone tucked beneath that thin layer of skin.

Some are ripped away violently while the victim is alive, choking on air that won't come, like a fish floundering on dry land. Some people like to watch others squirm. A killer claiming the ultimate prize. Murder isn't enough anymore. A need to take and take and take even when there's nothing left.

There is anger in the depth of the cut, pure impact. A little regret in how quickly it was pulled out. Panic hidden among the worst of the bruising. Satisfaction in smears of red. It's overwhelming, no anchor in sight and Will steps into the eye of the hurricane each time.

Will always remembers the name. He doesn't have many rules but that is one he obeys like a sinner chasing forgiveness.

It always begins with a body, mangled in some new way but with the same exact shade of red for blood, same torn skin, same barbed hooks in Will's stomach that tighten. That drag his feet forward each time, just like it's his first. Will doesn't want to see but he looks.

Closes his eyes and clears his mind out so there's room enough for another.

No matter how many times he does it, the anger that radiates from the crime is always new and frightening. It doesn't matter how many times he tells himself that he cannot be hurt, there's still a sheen of sweat that covers his skin when he opens his eyes again.

He still has to remind himself that he's not dead. And then after, that he's not a murderer. Some days it takes longer than others.

Today they are staring, worse than usual at hiding it. He feels the stares on the back of his neck like pinpricks making him go hot and cold at once, until he glances up and then everyone is quick to look away. It's unnerving when Will is usually the one who avoids eye contact. He feels trapped, like a butterfly pinned to a board. Come closer and see the colors, the frail wings. Look but don't touch. Jack doesn't want him ruined. Will tells himself that he's just being paranoid. It echoes false inside his skull.

And while Will likes to think that he's seen everything humanity has to offer, realistically, he knows that's just a pipe dream. That people will continue to contrive new terrible ways of destroying each others, of inflicting pain and horror. That murderers will keep on inventing. And Will will keep on seeing.

When Will is done after the pendulum stills, he stumbles over towards Beverly, tries to control just how badly he is shaking. Knows that she sees but despite it, Beverly is the one able to ground Will the best. Maybe because she doesn't pester him like the others, doesn't remark how pale he is or how tired he looks or ask when the last time he slept was. Beverly doesn't say any of these things. She just stands closer to him than usual, letting a bit of her warmth seep through the space between. And Will is finally able to let out a breath. That's usually enough. But not today.

Because today is a _bad day_ and Will's bad days are terrible enough that he has the sense to divide them in his mind, to recognize them for what they are, all quicksand and demons perched atop each shoulder. He's made the mistake of belittling them in the past, convinced himself that he could handle what he couldn't and paid the price. If he's lucky, he'll wake in a hospital, an IV jutting beneath his skin, the beep of machines and the stench of bleach around him. Bed rest for weeks. Will hasn't had a bad day in years and with the knowledge that this promises to be one, he's seized by the desire to run and lock himself away in his house with his dogs, to cover himself with blankets and not emerge until it's all over. Dog hairs and burnt coffee and no one around for miles and miles. Just Will and the silence.

Jack's voice breaks him from his meandering, a touch of impatience that means Will has missed something along the way. "I need you on this Will. I need you focused. Do I have that?" He doesn't sound overly concerned, nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Sit, stay, down, roll over.

"I don't want to do this." Will tells him and only feels a little like a sullen child. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to go home.

Jack doesn't react, doesn't even look up from the reports he's scanning. "But you will."

Will presses cold fingers to his burning forehead and says nothing.

The woman lays unmoving on the ground, naked limbs and pale skin, stiff as a board as rigor mortis begins to set in.

It always begins with a body. And Will can't look away.

* * *

Hannibal's presence leaves Will with the distinct impression that he is lacking in some way. Hannibal, per usual, is dressed in a three piece suit, no doubt one that costs more than Will's entire wardrobe put together. And while Dr. Lecter has not gone so far as to mention any disapproval towards Will's clothing choices, he still notices the sideways glances he gives the torn jeans and unraveling sweater. It's subtle, usually filled with amusement, softer than he looks at most others.

Will tries not to be pleased at that. It doesn't matter what people think about him, the range from brilliant to disturbed, that they write papers about minds like his. It hasn't mattered in such a long that Will is struck dumb by the foreign desire to please another person, to say the right things, to hide the dark stains of his psyche from Hannibal. Will doesn't let many people inside his head to the extent that he has allowed the doctor.

He has yet to see the man looking anything other than pristine. Meanwhile Will seems to exist in a constant state of dishevelment. Ruffled shirts that could use ironing if Will cared enough to do it, curly hair always falling in his face, dark circles under his eyes, dog hair clinging to his pants, scuffed shoes sprinkled with mud from crime scenes. He feels faintly foolish at his train of thought. Clothes have never been anything more to Will than a means for warmth and protection. They may mean something more to Hannibal but he knows the doctor doesn't judge him like others might. No, Doctor Lecter has a different set of criteria, ones that Will hasn't quite managed to untangle.

"Have you been eating?" The first thing Hannibal asks and Will knows it's no use lying. He doubts there's anything in his fridge besides beer and moldy bread.

So he shrugs. After all, they're not here to talk about Will's eating habits. "Do you ever get tired of being a therapist?" He asks instead.

"Can't say that I do. The human mind is constantly changing, evolving. Never a dull moment, as you well know."

Will doesn't say anything to that. It sounds like an echo of his thoughts earlier. Wonders if Hannibal said it first. He tends to confuse the two of them at his worst.

"And you Will? Are you tired of seeing?"

"This is what I am." This is what I am. This is what I do. Will chooses words carefully and Hannibal notices the difference.

His eyes sharpen at that and Will is convinced that he had said too much again. Hannibal manages to drudge up bits of secrets that Will would rather keep to himself.

"And the nightmares?"

Will is quiet for awhile, debating whether to tell the truth. Wondering if confession will help rid him of some of the poison. He clenches his jaw, tries to gather up his darkness, can't let it leak out. "I'm fine. It's fine. I can handle it."

Hannibal's eyes soften once more and Will takes a deep breath.

The headache is back in full vengeance and his stomach gives a burst of sharp pain. Will lifts his hand to his forehead, tries to rub away some of the pressure, make it look like he's brushing a strand of hair out of the way.

But Hannibal sees. Of course he does. It's annoying, constantly being on his toes around the man, being around someone who sees just as much as he does. The feeling is still novel enough, disconcerting at times when Will feels he's outmatched.

"I think I need...I need a sedative." It's easier than he thought it would be to admit. Will is so tired that he thinks anything would be easy now. "Do you-could you recommend-" he breaks off, leans back, feels his spine sink further into the leather.

"Why now?" Will's eyes fly open; he can't even remember closing them. He licks his lips, notices the glint of moonlight in the windowpane. The night is creeping, hovering over his shoulders. Images of the woman from the crime scene flash through his mind. A broken and bleeding body thrown out like trash. His mouth runs dry and no words come.

"I want to try an exercise if you'd indulge me." Hannibal begins, voice closer now. Will blinks up sleepily at him and Hannibal gives a small smile. "I want you to close your eyes."

Will tenses in reflex and then he forces himself to relax, the muscles to unfold, closes his eyes.

Hannibal's voice is deep and calming, "No one is going to hurt you Will. Not here." A faint rustle and then he goes on, "I want you to recall a memory. The last time you felt peace. Safety."

He gives Will a few moments to search through his memories until he latches onto one. The logs in the fireplace crackle and fall, sparks of red, shades of orange. Will doesn't see, doesn't hear.

"Where are you?" Hannibal's voices still finds him. The sky above threatens rain but Will doesn't care. He's up to his knees in clear water, life thrumming past, sweeping around him, cradling him.

"A lake. There was a lake." Will's voice is low and drowsy, a slurred edge as if he's been drugged. "I used to skip rocks on the shore."

"Are you alone?"

Will glances around, frozen wasteland, no one within sight. He could be the last person on earth. The thought doesn't trouble him like it might others.

"Yes, I-" His voice cuts off, momentarily distracted by a shadow in the forest. The ground quivers as something vital _shifts_. The water rises further and it feels angry. Will knows that doesn't make any sense. Water doesn't get angry, doesn't hold a grudge, but it's like walking through a crime scene, catching sight of things he isn't supposed to see, shards of emotions that aren't his own. A strong wave tears the rod from Will's hand. It sinks down past his feet and disappears from sight.

"What's wrong Will?" The voice is distant, coming from further and further away, a long tunnel with no light at the end. Will can barely hear him over the thunder. The world is shaking, trembling but Will holds himself still. The forest opens, naked limbs of trees pulled taut by some invisible string. The creature steps forward, closer and closer, but Will still can't see. The shadows darken, splotches of black dance across his vision.

"He's waiting for me. He won't show his face." The beginning of panic lacing his words, he begins to squirm in the seat. Don't want to see. Don't want to see. Antlers that stretch up and blot out the sun, stealing any semblance of warmth with it.

Amber eyes open and trap him where he stands. Stones roll atop his feet, pinning him. The water rises, rolling over his shoulders, past his nose, up over his eyes. Just before he is swept away, the creature reaches out one hand, razor sharp claws spread in invitation...There is a rush in his mind and the feeling of being pushed out from it.

Will comes back to himself feeling like all the strings that held him up have been cut. He slouches on the chair, vaguely aware of Hannibal's hand on the back of his neck, keeping his face between his knees. Hyperventilating.

"Breathe Will."

He struggles to obey, difficult when his body refuses to listen. Sweat drips down his forehead. The ice burns and his skin is on fire. There's something wrong with him down deep inside where no one can fix it.

Will doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until Hannibal's voice comes closer. "There's nothing wrong with you Will. You're just overwhelmed. Your mind is playing tricks."

Broken is a term Will would have chosen but he doesn't reply, not even when his heart ceases its frantic pace and settles. The shaking in his hands has gotten worse when he rubs at his eyes, tries to blink the brightness away. The windows show that night has fallen and Will wonders where the time has gone, has the sudden bizarre vision that he will wake up as an old man, wrinkled and grey and not recognize his own face staring back in the mirror. Losing time, the hours slipping away into nothing.

"You're pushing yourself too hard again." It comes out as a slight admonishment, laced with easy affection. Will wonders when he started being able to notice the subtle differences in Hannibal's tone. Or when Hannibal started letting him.

Will shivers. A fire roars across the room but he can't feel it. Can't feel anything but a deep sense of wrongness. His bones have turned to liquid in their casings.

"I'm tired." Is all he says, the truth plucked straight from deep inside him. Will can't ever remember being so tired. He wants to ask, beg Hannibal to fix him. Pick up the pieces and glue me back together. A listless doll, a broken teacup. He doesn't say any of this. Asking would be admitting. Step one, he thinks, a little hysterically.

Hannibal threads his fingers through Will's hair as a reward and despite his deep dislike of touch, Will finds himself leaning further in. A small sigh escapes his lips, unbidden. He hears more than sees Hannibal smile. "Just a little longer."


	2. Chapter 2

_"__And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind."_

_\- _**Pablo Neruda**

* * *

Will doesn't smoke, having been witness to his father's slow demise from cancer, but tonight he stands on the porch and goes through one pack and then two. Inhales cigarette after cigarette until it hurts to swallow and he envisions everything he eats or drinks from this moment on will taste of ash. It's a strange comfort in times like these- the subtle art of taking yourself apart piece by piece, of killing yourself in some small controlled way. Slowly instead of all at once.

Odd that hurting yourself can make you feel so safe. That bringing yourself that much closer to death can make you feel that much more alive.

No doubt Hannibal would have something to say if he heard Will's distinct vein of thought. Some deep imparted wisdom, some twisted truth that makes perfect sense at the time, makes Will see clearly and then when he is alone, falls apart. The logic that only makes sense in Hannibal's presence and afterwards, goes so very cloudy.

The low grade fever festering beneath his skin hasn't gone away. If anything, it's climbing ever higher, leaving Will to wonder how the others don't see because surely there must be signs. Little things he lets slip during moments of weakness. Grimy smudges that linger like an oil spill after its container has shattered.

Losing time, flinching from hallucination, sweat curling the edges of his hair, hands trembling, the empty bottles of Tylenol and Advil and Asprin. But they don't see, so life continues much the same while Will goes to pieces as quietly as he can.

All except for Hannibal. Will still isn't sure what to make of his therapist other than the obvious clues he's been gifted. Strikingly wealthy, an aged sort of money and prestige that leaves Will slightly unbalanced. Highly intelligent to the point of becoming unnerving- a trait they both share. Will never understood why others responded to him as though intimidated, not until now. Being on the receiving end of that caliber intellect is a novel experience. But perhaps most baffling of all is that iron control that never slips, as if everything is a choreographed dance and Hannibal alone has memorized the steps.

Will has begun to fear his therapist seeing too much, that his initial steadfast defenses have begun to crumble. It's never been a problem before. If Will wanted to keep people out, they stayed out. Except for now.

Even amidst that concern, there is a dual split- the terror of being seen too clearly, all his secrets laid out bare and the buried desire to be understood. Jack and Alana and Beverly try. They accept the pieces of Will they can comprehend and concede the necessity of the pieces they don't. It's all dead ends and red herrings though. Try as they might, they will never grasp the complexity of Will's mind. But Hannibal...

Will stumbles, pulled away from his thoughts with a jerk. It's cold now, growing even colder as the night deepens but he can't go inside. The house is too small and once he steps within its walls, that space will only diminish until it's pressing the air out from his lungs. Until he feels like Alice who drunk the vial, who ate the cookies. Will walks, aimless. He can breathe easier in the open field, nothing around but his dogs and a heavy hush. He pauses only a moment and turns back to glance at his house, lit up in the darkness, pinpricks of light shining through grey windows. It's a blow to the chest, the realization that even this doesn't feel safe anymore, doesn't even offer the pretense of it.

Will rubs his hands over his face and swallows hard, trying to ignore the sting of tears behind his eyes. He clenches his fist until there are five bloody nail prints embedded in his skin. He will not cry. He can't, can't fall apart because who would put him back together?

Footsteps in the snow and Hobbs' tread is heavy for a dead man.

It's only natural that Will tries to avoid sleep. It's normal, he tells himself, thinking back to that morning when he chugged down three cups of coffee, pinched the side of his arm until a bruise was raised. Students do it during exam week. Lawyers and soldiers and new parents do it all the time. But Will has been wavering on this particular tight rope far too long and his imbalance is starting to show. The stains beneath his eyes have turned into bruises. He can't remember what day it is, what week. Sometimes he looks up expecting to see a field of green instead of one covered in powder.

When sleep does claim him, it digs its claws in and refuses to let go. The hours that fill each crime scene linger in a blurred place between nightmare and reality and Will no longer has the confidence to differentiate between the two.

In sleep, he dreams of them, mirrored thoughts and images casting reflections back at one another, twisting just so. All those victims, all the women who were mothers and daughters and wives. Who had jobs and hobbies and homes. He doesn't want to be a victim but lately it's been taking even longer to convince himself that he is not riddled with bullet wounds when he wakes, that his skin is not torn from the ragged edge of a hunting knife, that there are not fingers curling around his throat cutting off all air. It is not blood that stains the sheets but sweat.

He needs to think and since he can't think inside, can't afford to sleep, he keeps walking and tries to catalogue his condition like one might a virus. When did he last eat? But the mere thought of food pulls tight at his stomach, sickening. He tries to recall the last conversation he had, but it's a dizzying blur of faces and voices that look and sound interchangeable. Everything is bleeding into the next.

He doesn't so much as glance to the side where his shadow follows. Doesn't need to look to know that Hobb is still wearing that striped collared shirt, splatters of red, riddled with nine holes from nine bullets. That Hobbs is watching him make his way further from home, eyes points of heat pressing against his neck and shoulders. Will has long since accepted the fact that he will never be rid of the man.

Ghosts surround him, crowding closer. He feels them hovering on the fringe of his awareness, watching, waiting for him to succumb to sleep, where they can follow him down.

The moon glints across the snow like shards of glass, wander too close and you might bleed. Any light from the house has disappeared. Winston is the only one left at his side, emitting small whimpers. Every once in awhile, a wet nose presses against his leg. It's just Winston and Hobbs.

Will pulls his coat tighter, scant pockets of heat that he doesn't really miss. The cool air is more of a relief even though he knows that's only the fever talking. He can image it soothing his fevered mind just as easily as it does his skin. It's all trees and darkness, the moon above him and crunching snow below. And absolutely nothing in sight that is recognizable.

"He's coming for you." Hobbs says, a hiss like a cobra winding up before it strikes.

Will pauses, jolted from his thoughts and glances around. He opens his mouth to answer and then closes it again, reminds himself the Hobbs isn't really there. Instead he says, "My name is Will Graham…". And then trails off because he doesn't know what day it is or where he is.

It's never not disconcerting- the way his mind can snap so effortlessly away from his body, the ease at which he leaves it all behind. The panic when he is tossed back into awareness, a growing dread that something terrible happened when he was comatose. That maybe, just maybe, he committed terrible acts too.

He's shaking all over and the cold is no longer a balm. The jacket he has on is thick enough for the fall but hours out in the dead of wintery night might be pushing his luck. A buzzing grows between his ears, white static noise, so loud he doesn't hear the next approach.

And perhaps the worst part is, he's not even surprised.

Gideon's face is pale, two splashes of pink in his cheeks, a stark contrast to the void. He looks so ordinary. He looks alive.

"You're not here." Will sounds much more certain than he feels.

Gideon glances around and then finally spread his arms wide, an avenging angel or maybe a fallen one.

"Well one of us is wrong." He peers at Will for a long moment and there is the distinct sensation of being dissected, the surgical precision of being taken apart. "Maybe I'm not here either." A glint of silver in his hand, a smudge of color that Will blinks rapidly trying to clarify.

"Just like mine." Hobbs whispers in his ear, his breath burning the base of Will's spine.

Gideon holds the knife like one might a bomb that magically appeared in his hand, as if he's just as confounded as Will is by how it got there. It fades as he tightens his grip, knuckles fading to white. Will reminds himself that there is no reason to fear an apparition. It won't hurt if Gideon places that dagger inside him because it's not there to begin with. Just your imagination, wind up and see how it goes. But Gideon doesn't move towards Will. Instead, he brings the sharpened point down on the bare skin of his arm and then he starts to push.

A sound of pain that Will belatedly recognizes as his his own. Confused, eternally dizzy, he looks down. Red stains his forearm, just above the indentation of his elbow. Blood running down in rivulets.

"You might be even crazier than me." Gideon steps closer and Will scrambles back, tripping over his own feet because this can't be right. His mind is playing tricks again and that is to be expected, but Will doesn't know the rules to this new game.

"I'm Will Graham." He says over and over, almost a plea, as both Hobbs and Gideon hover over him, as he disappears in their shadow. "I know who I am."

Gideon's smile is as sharp as the knife's edge. He leans down close to Will, close enough to smell the man's aftershave, to feel the heat of him, to see the shards of color in his eyes. He doesn't stop until they're mere inches apart and Will braces himself for the impact. A knife slipped between his ribs or, if Hobb's hungry expression is anything to go by, one quick cut across the pale vulnerable skin at the base of his throat. Paralyzed, Will realizes how utterly defenseless he is, laid on the ground, prostrate, waiting for the killing blow, a wounded animal already.

And then, almost as if wearing the same skin, all three move at once.

* * *

No sane person would consider it morning when Jack finds himself surrounded by a group of caffeine-laced detectives sectioning off a body. The corpse hasn't had time to fully cool, tendrils of heat still lingering but already vultures from the newspapers have caught the scent. Their cameras flash bright against the dawn. A bad start to what promises to be a terrible day. A crime scene stuffed to the brim full of people and no Will.

Jack stomps around, calling out orders with a cellphone pressed against the side of his face, still unshaven from when he'd been been pulled out of bed at 4 am. Each and every time it goes straight to voicemail. Finally he curses and stuffs the phone back into his pocket before sliding into the driver's seat of the closest police cruiser. He slams the door shut, not bothering to try and conceal his bad temper. Cut off from the noise of outside, he takes a moment to revel in the silence before stepping hard on the gas.

He pulls up to Will's driveway an hour later, cursing at the man's propensity for solitude. And if he walks a little too quickly to the front door, it isn't because he's worried. No, while Will has been more fragile than usual lately, there's no indication of anything seriously wrong. Shards of doubt seep in when he finds the front door ajar and no Will inside. The dogs lay together in a heap in front of a bare fireplace. They perk up at his entrance, a few warning growls that go unheeded.

The house is small. It doesn't take long to search. He still calls Will's name as he goes from room to room even though everything tells him Will isn't there. Dusty stacks of books, a piano that looks in desperate need of tuning, fishing gear littered all around. A bed in the middle of the living room, tangled sheets thrown to the floor. Almost nothing in the kitchen. He doesn't think of this place like a crime scene. It isn't, he tells himself over and over. There are a hundred possibilities more likely than that. Will might be visiting family he doesn't have or friend he doesn't want. There could have been an emergency of the ordinary kind. A slip and fall that required a trip to the hospital perhaps. One of the dogs taken to the vet. Maybe he's out shopping for groceries because a brief scan of the fridge and cupboards find nothing that looks edible.

Those fall flat though, excuses if he's ever heard one. So he keeps looking.

It isn't difficult to locate the single trail of footsteps that lead away, still evident despite the light powdering of snow from that morning. Jack follows it with dogged determination, hand lingering at his side where his gun is holstered. The hairs on the back of his neck stand upright and if there's one thing Jack has learned from decades of putting away the worst their sorry world has to offer, it's to trust his instincts.

He breaks from the treeline and stops dead. Just ahead, perhaps a dozen paces, the snow is mixed with dirt, tossed around as if from the struggle of an animal cornered. The snow is darker, dirty, patches of frozen ground ripped up. Splashes of red mix in with the white and brown. Still only one set of tracks, leading both there and away. The implication isn't one that he likes. His own words echo back, the surefire conviction that Will could survive anything thrown his way. I won't break him. I won't break him.

The proof of that wreckage lies in the snow. A pressure building behind his chest and he has to clear his throat several times before his voice is clear enough to speak without the threat of breaking. The phone in his hand shakes when he dials.

Hannibal picks up after three rings. The sound of that accent tilt is grounding somehow. Strangely enough that is what gives him the strength to confess the truth, the one that he'd seen the very first day when Will refused to meet his eyes, the look that's grown with every crime scene. The one Jack needed to ignore because Will was doing what no one else could, seeing what no one else should. Will was helping people, saving lives.

Back then, yesterday, this morning even, that was all the validation he needed. It's hard to summon that assurance now, impossible to feel anything except a crushing responsibility.

He looks at the blood and thinks this is what you did to him.

A murder of crows take to the sky at the sound of his voice. "Dr Lecter, I think we have a problem with Will."


	3. Chapter 3

_"__Even so, I must admire your skill. _

_You are so gracefully insane." _

**-Anne Sexton**

* * *

Will loses time. Once and then again.

A barren planet, a frozen wasteland. His body is enflamed in fever, his mind in tatters. Will sees everything. Sees and then forgets and nothing he does makes it come back. It's infuriating- the sensation of something vital lost just beyond reach.

Will runs. Shadows all around, shards of broken light from the moon overhead. No sounds other than his own ragged breath, the thump of his heart, the splinters of ice that fall from the sky.

Maybe he can run far enough away, exhaust himself enough to empty the darkness that creeps within. He goes on and on.

Will loses time, once and then again.

He stumbles to a halt when the pressure inside his chest grows too great, when he feels as though he's about to pass out. His knees soak in the snow, a fine tremble atop his skin. The night is cold and Will has no shoes. His teeth have begun to chatter. None of this matters. It's all easily dismissible.

Hobbs isn't. He whispers things, insisting with that scathing intensity Will can't escape from because he got too close, lost himself in the maze of Hobbs' mind and now he can't find his way back out. No discernible markers, no breadcrumb trail.

Will loses time, once and then again.

He tries to convince himself that Hobbs isn't really there, that's he's dead but when he looks back in the snow, he swears there are two tracks of footprints instead of one. The man lives inside his shadow, voice louder than Will's own, echoing inside his head like a drum.

He killed him. Or at least he thinks he did. But that's all unraveling now. Slow spools of silk, lazy stitches of thread. Unraveling, unspooling. He killed Hobbs or maybe Hobbs killed him.

But that doesn't matter either. Not when Will's hands come away red. Not when his shirt is crusted with old blood, flaking beneath his fingernails. Because it's not his- can't be- not when he doesn't feel any cuts, can barely feel his skin at all.

There's something he needs to do. Remember. A heavy weight in his pocket brings it back.

Police sirens scream in the distance, flashes of red and blue. A persisting chant of _they're after you, they're after you_. He must have done something, finally snapped, finally lost control to the ones that he invited inside his head. He hurt someone, must have. A headache blooms behind his eyes like blood on a clean bandage. He moans, shaking, trying to rub it all away. He needs a clean slate. He needs the noise to dim so he can think. Remember.

"Will?"

His eyes fly open when he hears a voice. _That_ voice. The only one that can drown out Hobbs. He looks around wildly, can't remember how or when or why but that's all become normal.

Hannibal stands in front of him, towering despite the slight difference in height. Warm air seeps closer, carried towards Will with the faint scent of smoke and oak and marble. If anything, it only makes the shivering worse like his body had grown so numb that it had been shocked into stillness and now, at the first sign of warmth, it restarts like a car engine backfiring.

He supposes it makes sense, in its own twisted way, that everything is to end here. A snake devouring its tail, he thinks without really knowing why.

Hannibal beckons him inside the house as opulent as its owner. One hand latched onto his shoulder presses briefly against his neck, checking his pulse, testing the severity of the fever that burns his brain.

It takes awhile to realize that Hannibal is speaking, a concerned look on his face. "Are you alright?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. Will considers lying but there's no need anymore. Or at least there won't be soon. In the end, he simply shakes his head, knowing he must look all kinds of pathetic.

He catches a glance of his reflection in a mirror as Hannibal nudges him through the hallway towards the dining room. Deathly pale with two bright splotches of color that betray his fever. His eyes are too bright against the stains beneath. Sweat has plastered curls to the side of his face. Hannibal takes a chair and sets it as close to the fireplace as can be before pushing Will down on it, boneless and pliant.

Even with the heat of the flames, he can't seem to stop trembling. But this time, it's not because of the cold. It's the weight inside his coat. It's because he remembers what he needs to do, why he came here.

"Will, when was the last time you slept?"

It isn't fair that Hannibal sounds like that. Like he cares what happens to Will. Like he wants nothing more than to piece him back together.

Will shakes that off, pulled back to the topic at hand.

"They think I did it."

The feeling of a knife within his grip, the sting of sharp pain when the girl panicked and fought back, not much strength in her but desperation makes monsters out of men. Her nails had been long and sharp. They had raked his arms before he sunk the knife into her flesh right up to the hilt. And then she went very still.

"No one has accused you of anything."

Will wants to scream in frustration because Hannibal still doesn't see. It doesn't matter if the others haven't caught on yet. Hannibal is supposed to know before Will does. He's supposed to stop him, be the buffer between him and the rest of the world. He feels suddenly, irrationally angry. At Hannibal for not understanding instinctively like Will hoped he'd be able to, at himself for not being able to put into words what he feels.

"But did I? Did I do it?" Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. His hands are clumsy when he tries to wipe it away. "I can't remember." A haze engulfs his mind when he tries. Will pulls up his sleeves. Nothing but smooth pale skin.

But he remembers like the memory belongs to him alone, like he was there.

Hobbs' smile is sharp at the edges. He spreads out his arms showcasing ten gouges of red. The girl had fought him, them. Was there any difference anymore?

Hannibal looks simultaneously bemused and fascinated, a strange sentiment but the doctor has always leaned heavily towards the side of unorthodox.

"Hobbs and- I think, I think it was me too." He whispers, horror rising in waves.

Hannibal's eyes flicker to the dark empty corner that has Will so fixated. "Hobbs is dead."

Will shakes his head, pushes away that hair that's fallen in front of his eyes, trying to control the rise of bile at the base of his throat. "He won't let me go."

"He's a delusion, nothing more."

His head droops, all lingering adrenaline run clean through. He feels hollow, bones empty of everything except their casings. He can't make Hannibal see, can't make him understand and that blow hits him like a gunshot. He had hoped…

Hobbs smiles, a forked tongue slipping between his teeth.

"Will, I need you to be calm." Hannibal's voice is commanding. It has a certain pull, makes others snap to attention. But not for Will now. Not when he is sweating and pacing and shaking, mind throbbing in time with his heartbeat, thundering its way past him.

"He warned me. Told me this would happen." Will grabs handfuls of his hair until his eyes water, a noise escaping past his lips like a broken sob. "I don't want to. I don't want to. What if it's already inside me?"

"Will-" and then Hannibal stops, eyes flickering and snagged on the thing in Will's hands. He follows his gaze down to his lap. A gun gripped so tight, his fingers must have frozen around it.

"Maybe, maybe I should." He murmurs, more to himself.

A leap into the abyss. But isn't that what Will has been doing his entire life? Jumping into the darkness with no guarantee, no safety net, little idea of what waits at the bottom.

"I don't want to hurt anyone." The excuse sounds pathetic to his own ears, despite the fact that it's true. But his life isn't his own anymore. Will has shared it with far too many killers to ever be alone inside his own mind again.

Saving lives made it okay. That meant the nightmares and the sleepless nights and the inability to look another human being in the eye was worth it. But not anymore. Because the blood on his shirt only means one thing. He isn't saving lives anymore. He's taking them. Seized in a sudden panic, he tugs at his shirt, tries to wipe it away. All that red. Covering his forearms, his wrists, his hands, between his fingers.

Hannibal stops him before he can do much more damage than inflict a few artificial scratches. The doctor is both faster and stronger than he looks, a wolf among sheep, and something about that strikes Will as off. A cleverly tailored disguise not unlike a suit, not unlike human skin, but the image evaporates as quickly as it arrived.

"Will, there's no blood there. You're having a hallucination."

He breaks free and stumbles to the other side of the room, desperate to put some space between them. Or rather Hannibal lets him because he has all the strength of a newborn kitten. "No." he says. "No, you can't lie to me, not about this. Please."

"Will-"

"No." And then stronger, "I can't let myself. Don't you see? I don't sleep and if I do-if I do, what if I never know?"

Hannibal takes a step closer but stops when Will answers by taking one further away. "You're confused and have what I suspect is a very high fever. That doesn't make you a killer."

Will doesn't answer because he knows what he has to do.

Clear and terrible. He spends a few seconds trying to fight off the pounding at the base of his skull, the way it makes his stomach jump and heart race. Fights down the urge to heave. But it doesn't change anything in the end. He still knows his next step. The final step.

And then his movements turn rushed and clumsy because if he lets himself think about it too long, he won't be able to go through with it.

"Thank you, for trying to fix me." He remembers to say. Hannibal values good manners and Will would hate to leave the man with a negative view of him, more so than he undoubtedly has already.

He takes a moment to consider Will and it feels not unlike being filleted. Bones and guts and muscle out in the open for Hannibal to see. A wave of dizziness rushes over Will, staggering, and he has a blind hope not to pass out before he can finish this.

"You're not broken Will." Hannibal says after a long pause. Out of everything, it's that which makes him flinch. Because Hannibal is not supposed to lie to him. Not to him, not now.

Still, he can't help the bitter laugh that escapes.

His hand fishes around in his pocket, latches onto cool metal.

The gun is familiar. It doesn't feel like a threat. It feels like a promise, like freedom. A release from his mind and isn't that what he's been searching for all along?

Will looks into the future.

In a few seconds, his blood will splatter the walls. He'll try to aim away from Hannibal.

A few minutes later and Hannibal will make a call. Jack will be the one to answer. There might be anger or sadness. Guilt and blame. But there's no time to write a letter and doing so would not absolve Jack of his sins. A dead man can't grant forgiveness to the living.

Not even an hour later and Beverly and Brian and Jimmy will walk through those doors, momentarily distracted by the dark lushness of the house before their gazes settle on him. No one will need to ask his name, check the paper for a serial number.

"No one's going to come Will. You're not going to die." He only realizes he's spoken aloud when Hannibal answers in that clever, certain way of his that usually means he knows something Will doesn't.

"I don't want to get blood on things but-" he thumbs the safety off, "Would you ask Alana to look after my dogs?"

Tears prick the back of his eyes and he swipes angrily at them. This wasn't supposed to happen, not now. It was supposed to be easier. One clean shot. He needs to hurry before he can change his mind. The gun loads with a click.

Hannibal doesn't answer but Will never expected him to. It's strange that among all this, Will takes into account most the way Hannibal is studying him, as if Will is fascinating and new and rare. A lot of people see Will that way. It shouldn't strike him so hard now.

"Look away."

Hannibal doesn't. Doesn't so much as blink. He tightens his fingers. The world is blessedly quiet.

"Bye." Will whispers, screws his eyes tight, presses the muzzle of the gun to the underside of his jaw where the skin is so achingly vulnerable. One shot, no way he'll survive it. No loose ends. He takes a final breath and then he pulls the trigger.

There's nothing at all but a hollow click.

Will startles, muscles shredded as blood continues to pump through them. A sob escapes. His fingers are shaking so badly, it takes longer than it should for him to open the chamber.

Empty.

"Did you do this?" A hint of betrayal laces his words and despite it all, he still feels hurt.

Hannibal doesn't answer but his eyes burn with something Will can't put a name to. The doctor gives a slight nod. "It's my job to protect you. In your case, more often than not, that's from yourself."

The gun falls to the floor. They remain perfectly frozen, caught in some spider's web.

Will's legs give out and he sinks to his knees. Hannibal looks down, appraising, eyes gleaming in the darkness. Will shivers against the cold, his head a great weight on his shoulders.

Day will be breaking soon, a sunrise that Will wasn't supposed to live to see.

And then there are hands on his skin, one cupping the back of his neck, the other spanning the side of his face. Calloused hands, a surgeon's hands, deft and gentle. Tipping his chin back, lifting one eye-lid. Will has the sensation of falling, of his strings being cut. One of Hannibal's fingers, calloused, run a slow trail down his cheek. Will doesn't try to pull away. Those hands are the only things holding him up. If Hannibal lets go, he'll tumble down and down.

Hobbs is silent. There are no dark whispers, no promises of becoming.

Just Hannibal, tall and strong, and Will, unable to make out his words, unable to make them go away. Will doesn't want him to. He finds the strength to curl his fingers into Hannibal's shirt, to cling.

"Don't leave me." He slurs out, tipping his head forward to rest against Hannibal's chest, too tired and worn out not to be anything but completely honest. "Please."

Hannibal doesn't answer for a long time, so long that Will begins to wonder if he's gone and ruined this, his final chance of being saved, cut into his life vest with his own two hands. He wants desperately to sleep. To close his eyes and not wake for years and years.

Hannibal pulls him back, invisible string pulled taut, demanding all of Will's attention until there's no room left even for Hobbs. His smile is a sword, double edged. It holds a promise.

"You need someone to save you." The words hold a faint echo to them, a small death cradled gently inside. Not his own perhaps, or at least not all of him, but pieces.

Will's eyes roll back in his head and just before oblivion overtakes him, he hears, "People like you and I should never be alone."


End file.
